


Early Sunsets

by alligatorwall



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blood and Gore, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd Gets Therapy, Dimitri deserved better in VW :(, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Physical Disability, Platonic Relationships, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Spoilers for Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Sylvain is Fed Up, also dedue he also deserves better always
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:00:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25603234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alligatorwall/pseuds/alligatorwall
Summary: War can be devastating, even for the strongest of soldiers. The former Blue Lions have been ravaged by it, but life marches onward, with or without them. Claude is willing to give them a chance—and unwilling to let an opportunity go to waste.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Dedue Molinaro, Leonie Pinelli & Sylvain Jose Gautier, minor Sylvain Jose Gautier/Mercedes von Martritz - Relationship
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	1. Aftermath

Leonie had never seen such a desolate battlefield.

The long grasses of Gronder were torn up and trampled under the weight of three armies. Fires still smoldered in the brush, on the central hill, and even licking at the clothes and flesh of fallen soldiers. The stench of smoke and sweat and blood was thick in the air. It made her nauseous. Her ears rang from the din of soldiers, wyverns, and horses clashing.

No one had died well today. They hadn’t fought for anything but the right to survive. Every corpse on the ground may as well have been a stomped rat.

The retreat horns of both the Alliance and Empire armies still warbled through the air. The Kingdom army was in shambles; as far as Leonie could tell, all of the high-ranking commanders were either dead or dying. She had directed some of her battalion to lead the survivors back to the Alliance camp. Those soldiers had won their lives, for now. She wouldn’t see them pierced in the back by Imperial arrows or devoured by the wolves that would come when the sun fell.

Leonie turned to her horse, swinging up onto its back. Before she could canter off, though, a bloodcurdling wail echoed across the field.

Another survivor. She could have sworn she recognized the voice. And now that she’d heard it, she wouldn’t be able to rest until she found the source.

As she wandered to the north, she caught sight of a shock of red hair, glowing in the dying sunlight. A man on his knees, head lowered, surrounded by dead bodies. When she got closer, she recognized him—the hunch of his shoulders, the curve of his back.

“Sylvain! It’s you, isn’t it?”

His head jerked around to stare at her. Tear streaks cut through the gore and mud on his face. His eyes were raw.

“They’re gone,” he said hoarsely. “Goddess, this wasn’t supposed to happen...”

Leonie slid off her horse. As she approached him, she realized why he was in so much distress. Lying beside him, blood soaking into the mud, were Felix and Ingrid. Sylvain had one hand tangled in Felix’s hair and the other clenched around Ingrid’s wrist.

“Oh, Sylvain…” Leonie dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing his face into her shoulder. His body shook as he began to sob.

“It was supposed to be me,” he rasped. “I always told myself it would be me.”

Leonie had shed her armored overcoat when it became too heavy and damaged in the battle, and now she could feel her old classmate’s tears soaking through her shirt. She pulled him closer, holding him until his sobs began to ebb away.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “But this isn’t the place to grieve. Let’s get somewhere you can clean up.”

She tried to get him to stand with her, but he wouldn’t budge, tightening his grip on his friend’s bodies.

“I can’t leave them,” he whispered.

Leonie swallowed the knot in her throat. “I’m sorry, but we can’t take them with us. They’ll only slow us down, and the Imperial rear guard could sweep by any minute now.” She glanced over their bodies once more, drawing in a breath when she realized they had died with Heroes’ Relics in hand. Lúin, Aegis—even the Lance of Ruin lay a few feet away.

“We can bring their Relics,” she said. Sylvain looked at her, eyes burning.

“You can’t bury a Relic.”

“You can bury a sword.” She gingerly pried Felix’s blade from his limp grasp. “Or a hairpin.” She reached for Ingrid’s head, carefully slipping the clips out of her hair and letting it fall against her face.

Taking Sylvain’s hands, she coaxed him away from Felix and Ingrid, tucking the hairpins and the hilt of the sword into his palms. “We have to go,” she said softly. “Come, on your feet, that’s it…”

After pulling him to a stand, Leonie checked him for any severe injuries. All she found was a deep gash in his right shoulder, but that wouldn’t impair his walking, and by now it had stopped bleeding. She led him over to her horse, letting it sniff him out as she collected the Relics from the field. Picking them up sent a shudder through her body; the crest stones seemed to glower at her, demanding penance for the disrespect of being touched by one with no crest.

They were heavy. Carrying all of them at once would be awkward. She started to struggle over to the horse, but to her surprise, Sylvain took the lances from her arms.

“These things are nasty. I’ll handle them.”

His voice was still unsteady, but he seemed to be holding it together enough to make it through the ride.

“Thanks,” Leonie responded, lifting herself up onto her horse. “Now c’mon, let’s get out of here.”

_ _ _

They trotted into the camp as the sun dipped below Fódlan’s Throat in the distance. A handful of guards ran up to them, greeting Leonie as they recognized her.

“Commander! Good to see you still alive! We were beginning to worry.”

“I’m glad to see you too, Russel!” she answered, cheered at the familiar face.

The guard extended his hand to help her off the horse. “Who’s this you’ve got with you?”

“An old friend.” Leonie turned and took the Relics from Sylvain’s arms, freeing him to dismount. “Here,” she handed the Relic weapons to Russel. “Take these to the weapons tent, put them with the other Relics. Make sure they make it there, these are precious.”

“What in the eternal flames…where’d you find three of these things?”

Sylvain flinched. Leonie pursed her lips. “Long story. I’ll tell you later.” She handed her horse’s reins to another guard. “I need to report to Claude. Make sure she gets fed, okay?” she said to the guard leading her horse away.

“You got it, sir!”

Leonie let out a breath as the guards scurried away. “Alright, let’s get you taken care of,” she said, turning to Sylvain.

She led him through the camp, stopping at the bath tent to wash their hands and faces before showing him to the refugee quartermaster.

“Wait in line here, they’ll give you an ID and a bedroll. You can use your ID for a ration at the mess tent. I wouldn’t try the med tent tonight, all of the healers are busy with people in critical condition, but try to find time to clean and bind your wounds, okay?”

Sylvain nodded dully, staring off over her head.

Leonie sighed, placing her palms on the side of his face and forcing him to look her in the eye. “I’ll find you and check in before lights out. I need you to be okay for a little while longer.”

He let out a short, humorless chuckle. “I’m good at faking it. See you later.”

She started to turn away, but Sylvain grabbed her hand.

“Wait…one more thing. Thank you.”

Leonie smiled. It felt strange. An hour ago she thought she’d never smile again. “Don’t mention it.”

_ _ _

“Hey, Claude!” Leonie called, jogging up to the medical tent. “Guess who the cat dragged in?”

“I’d wager the crown of Almyra that my catch is bigger,” he responded. 

“Huh?” Leonie hurried over, puzzled. He’d joked in his reply, but his face was set with worry, brows knit together and lips twisted down. Leonie quickly realized why. The tent was swarmed with medics, all concentrated on one cot. A pile of black armor was strewn in a corner, on top of a filthy furred cloak. One of the medics left the table briefly, and Leonie choked on her breath when she saw who they were tending to. 

Prince Dimitri lay on the cot with holes in his body. Gaping wounds on his shoulder, thigh, and even chest pulsed with blood, soaking through the gauze the healers kept piling on. Leonie guessed he had been run clean through with spears. Three priests chanted under their breaths, desperately trying to keep him alive with magic while the others stopped the bleeding and began knitting his body back together. His chest rose and fell faintly, and a damp cloth was draped over his nose and mouth—likely soaked with sedative, fumes locking him in unconsciousness. 

“Oh, goddess,” she exhaled. “How is he still alive?”

Claude shook his head. “The bastard was running on pure adrenaline. Hilda spotted him chasing after the Imperials. If Marianne hadn’t kept him breathing on the flight over here he’d be long gone.” 

Leonie shuddered. Seeing Dimitri lying there, practically in pieces, so vulnerable...it was terrifying. Sure, they’d fought as equals at the academy, but there was no denying that Dimitri was one of the deadliest people in Fódlan—he had surpassed her, and maybe even Claude and Edelgard in a straight fight, long ago. If a force of nature like the prince of Faerghus could be reduced to a puddle of blood, what hope was there for regular soldiers like her?

After a few moments, Claude stirred, facing Leonie. “I could use some good news right now, let’s step out. What did you find?” 

Leonie explained, grateful to turn away from the grisly image of the fallen prince. When she mentioned the Relics, Claude perked up. 

“Really? All three of them?”

Leonie nodded. “They still have their crest stones. I sent them to storage with the other high-value weapons.”

Claude exhaled, pressing his lips against his knuckles. “Even without the crest-bearers, those could be very powerful. I hesitate to seize them, since they’re almost all Sylvain has left of his old friends, but…this is war. We may not have a choice.” 

“I’ll talk to him,” Leonie said. “He’s smart, he’ll probably see reason.”

“Sounds good. Feel him out, see what he’s thinking. When he’s ready, I’d like to speak to him myself,” Claude added. “If he survives, Dimitri will be out of commission for a while. Sylvain is one of the highest-ranking members of the Kingdom army left; his people will need someone to look to for leadership.”

Leonie’s eyes narrowed. “One of?” 

“Yeah, Mercedes came in early with the Kingdom rear guard, went straight to the healing tent. And Dedue—poor guy—Hilda picked him up, he was following Dimitri.” Claude sighed. “We had to sedate him. He was so stressed over Dimitri he wouldn’t leave the healers alone, he had a panic attack.” 

Leonie shook her head. “These Faerghus kids are too loyal for their own good.” 

Claude chuckled. “I could’ve told you that when they followed that madman into battle this morning. Although,” he mused, “there’s something precious in it. I’ve met so many people who live behind masks. It’s nice to know exactly where someone’s allegiances lie once in a while.”

“Sounds like you’re talking about yourself." 

“Ha. Maybe.”

_ _ _

As Leonie jogged out of his sight, Claude couldn’t help returning his attention to Dimitri. The priests still didn’t have him in a stable condition. He could hardly blame them. Mercedes had appeared, bringing her skill and experience to the table, and she seemed to be focused on the wounds closest to the prince’s heart and lungs. It was slow going, but Claude could see scar tissue forming under the white magic, the power of Fódlan’s goddess sewing together the gaping tears in Dimitri’s body. 

Will it be enough? Can they even save his life at this point? Can they save anything other than his life? The royal halls of Almyra were plenty full of old warriors who had taken on too much and paid the price, whatever their motivations. A missing hand, a lame leg, a punctured lung...they were all very real possibilities. If it were Claude, he’d be happy to make it out still breathing. So long as he had his mind, and enough power to influence the world, he could work towards his goal. 

But Dimitri? Even in their academy days, he was nothing if not active. Happiest when he was working his body, and he seemed to pour his emotions into the swing of his lance. It was how he expressed himself—his compassion as well as his wrath. Would he be able to face the reality that his body would never be as strong as it once was? If he were crippled, or even confined to a wheelchair? 

Part of Claude hoped he would. Hoped the prince’s spirit and idealism would burn bright enough to find a path away from the battlefield. 

But deep down, Claude was afraid for his old friend. Dimitri had been fixated on his revenge for nearly a decade. Being barred from his goal, not by hordes of soldiers or Hubert von Vestra or Edelgard’s axe, but by his own human frailty...it could break him. And there wasn’t much left to break. 

A whimpering death wasting away in despair didn’t suit anyone, but it especially didn’t suit Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd. 

A courier tapped Claude on the shoulder. His tacticians were waiting for him in the council tent. Claude murmured a prayer—to Fódlan’s goddess, to Almyra’s war god—under his breath before letting the young boy lead him away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! After snooping on public Ao3 for months and literally storing links to my favorite fics at the bottom of my fanfiction google doc, I thought Hm, Maybe I Should Just Get An Account! I haven't posted a fic in years, so its not technically my first, but please be kind regardless!  
> About the actual text you just read, I think most of us agree that Dimitri dying off-screen in VW is disappointing and anticlimactic for one of the main lords. My brain went how about we stick to the description Hilda gave, but they manage to rescue him before he bleeds out? This is basically the evolution of that.  
> I think Leonie and Sylvain are super funny together, Leonie's similar enough to Ingrid but a little less uptight and minus the childhood-friends baggage. I like to imagine Leonie lets herself goof off with him until he says something stupid, then he gets the usual whammin'. Also they have a scorebook for who gets the most dates with girls, Leonie is winning.  
> If you came here for Dimidue, I'm afraid you'll have to wait a bit. It's not really the focus of this fic but I think their relationship is incredibly precious and healing for both of them. Once peace comes, so can the fluff.  
> This won't be more than 3 or 4 chapters, nice and low investment. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and the chapters to come!


	2. Convalesce

Sylvain was tired. 

Tired of swinging his lance at training dummies. More tired of swinging it at people. Super extremely tired of marching back and forth across the country.

Exhausted with listening to his prince scream and curse and plead at ghosts from the third floor of the monastery.

The stupid war didn’t even make him angry anymore. He just wanted it to end. Vaguely he was aware that his apathy was beginning to show—he’d been reprimanded more than once by Marianne and Mercedes and even the old professor for not bothering to guard himself in battle. 

He couldn’t bring himself to care much. Certainly, he meant to honor his promise to the professor to survive the war, but that was mostly for Mercedes and Dedue’s sakes. Neither of them could take many more close losses, no matter how much they hid it.

After one last rough lance form, Sylvain wiped the sweat from his brow and threw the training lance on the rack. With the march for Enbarr looming at the end of the week, this session would probably be his last until he was on the road to Empire territory.

He went through his routine. Bathe, eat, get as drunk as he needed to be, sleep. He rarely wandered the monastery beyond the areas where he could get those things done. Philandering wasn’t even worth the energy anymore; if worst came to worst, he could satisfy himself just fine. 

As he stumbled through the halls to reach the dormitory, he nearly tripped over Mercedes. She let out a startled gasp, and Sylvain had enough presence of mind to shoot a hand out and help her catch the tray of tonics and herbs she nearly dropped.

“Oh, how clumsy of me!” she exclaimed. “I’m so sorry, Sylvain, I thought I was improving!”

Her flustered blush made a genuine smile tug at his lips. Sober, he would’ve smothered it in dazzling, exaggerated charm, but tonight he was just impaired enough to not summon the effort. 

Damn. He’d found a downside to getting hammered that he might actually consider. “Don’t worry about it, Mercedes. I’m glad you didn’t drop anything.”

Mercedes balanced the tray in one arm, using her other to smooth her disheveled dress. “Yes, thank you for helping me! I was just bringing Dimitri his medicine, and the ingredients are difficult enough to find without me spilling an entire batch.”

Sylvain’s good mood at seeing his old classmate darkened at the mention of the prince. Mercedes must have sensed it, because she peered up at him with those gentle blue healer eyes. 

“What’s troubling you about him, Sylvain?” she asked. “You rarely visit, and whenever someone brings him up you shut down.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” he hedged, trying to sidestep her and duck inside the dormitory. “Just, y’know, wishing him a speedy recovery!”

To his shock, Mercedes actually _moved_ to block his escape. Her stern gaze froze him in his tracks. “Sylvain. You know you don’t have to lie, or pretend. Not with me.”

 _I wish I did._ He took a shuddering breath. “You’re right, Mercedes. But now’s not a good time. It’s late, you’re busy, I’m, ah, under the influence...I think I just need a good night’s rest.”

Mercedes tutted softly. “I suppose you’re right. But, please, don’t run away from this. If Dimitri is ever going to get better, he needs all the support he can get. And you bring something that Dedue and I can’t.”

Sylvain chuckled. “Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

“I think you’re capable of, ah…” She tilted her head. “Tough love. Yes, that’s it.”

“Tough love?” he snorted. “You’re mistaking me for…”

The name died on his tongue. It hung in the air as if he’d said it all the same. 

Mercedes broke the silence first, stepping forward to reach up and place her hand on his cheek. Sylvain flinched, but let her guide his head so he could meet her eyes. 

“Let’s have tea tomorrow, and we can talk about it,” she murmured. A teasing glint crept into her face. “If you think you can remember an invitation while you’re ‘under the influence?’”

Once again, Sylvain couldn’t banish his dopey, honest smile, despite his best attempts to shove it in a corner or drown it in glitter. “As long as it’s from you, baby.”

Her light giggles as they went their separate ways rang in his head, echoing in his ears even as he drifted to sleep. 




Dimitri thought he’d already been through the worst life had to offer. He was wrong. 

The infernal combination of drugs and magic the healers had him under completely tore away his feeble grip on reality. He couldn’t move a muscle, couldn’t shut his eyes, couldn’t even open his mouth to scream as his ghosts howled before him. 

The visions didn’t seem to end. His father’s body cursing him from its decapitated head, a river of blood spilling out from his own hands as the severed limbs of those he killed clung to his body, and now Felix and Ingrid, eyes full of hate and contempt, demanding that he rise from his cot and avenge them, too.

He had no concept of time. He came back to himself gradually; snippets of memory lingered in his head of Mercedes murmuring to him as she changed the bandages on his wounds, of Dedue holding his hand and delicately working the tangles from his hair. 

The professor brewing chamomile tea, filling the room with the heady scent of it as they arranged thistles, white heather, and forget-me-nots in a vase on his bedside table. 

Claude kicking his feet ( _with shoes, what a slob_ ) up on the desk, chatting away, telling him that the Kingdom survivors were safe, and that Sylvain and Dedue were leading as commanders in the professor’s army, and they were planning to storm Fort Merceus with “a little help from some friends in the East.”

The news of the army marching deep into Empire territory without him is what slammed Dimitri into full awareness for the first time since he saw Edelgard’s scarlet cloak disappearing over the hill at Gronder. 

“Take me with you.”

The words rasped in his throat, and he had to shove down a cough. His lungs ached, and his entire body flared with pain when he lurched around to stare at Claude. 

Claude stared back, mouth hanging open in disbelief. If Dimitri had not felt so miserable, he would have mocked the young duke for the failure of his silver tongue. 

After a moment Claude let out a nervous laugh. “Uh, I don’t think so. You’re not nearly recovered enough to fight. Maybe next month—”

Dimitri lunged. Or, at least, tried to. He succeeded in launching himself off of his bed and surging towards Claude, but the combination of the blankets tangling in his legs, Claude springing back like a spooked cat and the agony that ignited his left thigh left him crumpled on the floor. Fingers meant for Claude’s throat clawed weakly at his sleeves as he held Dimitri down, calling for guards and healers. 

The fuss and bustle that followed was drowned out by the sickening, maddening laughter of every man, woman, and child Dimitri had watched die. 

_This is what our hopes rest upon? This will be the source of our salvation?_

_I think not. That pathetic creature is no son of mine._

Dimitri thrashed, desperately trying to throw off the hands that surrounded him, pulling his arms away from his face and pinning his head to the floor and baring his neck for something sharp to sink in past the stubble.

_You’ll pay for what you’ve done. You can’t hold us back anymore._

_Just give up, princeling. Join us, so we can at least take our vengeance from you._

Dimitri found the strength to scream. “No, please! I’ll kill her, I’ll save you! They will not stop me…” His tongue was lead, his mouth full of cotton. His vision blurred, doubled, spiraled, began to fade. “Please, forgive me…”

_To think that my son would disgrace me so. Such a disappointment._




After that incident no one came into his room alone. 

That is, until the door opened, and Sylvain stepped inside. 

Dimitri didn’t bother hiding his stare as he looked up from the clay. His childhood friend had been the one person who had yet to visit him. There were so many possible reasons why, so he never questioned it. 

Sylvain stared back, eyes sweeping over the room. The priests had placed Dimitri in one of the secluded rooms on the third floor of the monastery, close enough to the infirmary for easy access, but still away from prying eyes and vulnerable patients. It was fairly plain and bare: the only furnishings were the bed and nightstand, the desk and chairs where Dimitri was seated, a basin of water, and a bookshelf. The fact that anything sharp or breakable in the room had disappeared shortly after he had attacked Claude did not escape Dimitri’s notice. As far as he was aware, two guards were posted outside his room at all times, and the window was barred; whether these were precautions to protect him or protect everyone else, he could not say. 

Dimitri broke the silence first. “What do you want.”

Sylvain took his time answering, pacing over to plop himself down on the chair opposite Dimitri. He frowned down at Dimitri’s dusty, cracked hands and the ball of clay he was kneading. “What the hell is that?”

“Clay.”

“I can see that. How did you get it?”

“Ignatz.”

Sylvain’s eyebrows went up. Dimitri had been surprised, too. Several days before the date Claude had told him was their march for Fort Merceus, the young painter had joined Marianne on her daily checkup. 

Ignatz hadn’t winced away upon seeing the puckered, barely-healed scars that now ran through Dimitri’s body. Nor had he flinched at Dimitri’s withering glare. He simply helped Marianne organize her tray of tonics and poultices, handing her gauze and lotions as she required them. After she had finished her work, he’d pulled out a small package from his cloak. 

“I know it must be frustrating to be stuck inside all the time,” he’d said, gaze level to Dimitri’s eye as he unwrapped the paper. “I found this in my old stash of supplies. It’s pretty stale, no good for sculpting, but you might find it relaxing to just work it around, making shapes. Just keep it wet and it’ll stay pliable.”

Dimitri only responded with a grunt of acknowledgement, and the two had left without another word spoken. But in the weeks to come, as Dimitri recovered enough to leave his bed but not enough to move without the constant ache in his back, shoulders, and thigh, he grudgingly reached for the ball of clay more times than he would ever admit. It was a poor substitute for the exercise he would’ve turned to in the past, but at least being able to work with his hands was something to fill the spaces of time between meals and checkups. Something to focus on, the trivial goal of shaping a bear or cat or tree. Something to fill his mind other than the vicious, punishing voice in his head. He couldn’t tell if that voice was his or not anymore.

Sylvain watched him punch and pull the clay, wringing it into the approximate shape of a fox. Pointed ears, long snout, bushy tail. 

Eventually Sylvain spoke. “You’re still fixated on your revenge.”

It was not a question, so Dimitri felt no need to respond.

“Why?”

Dimitri felt his lip curl. “Justice has not been served. The dead cannot rest so long as that _woman_ and her underlings draw breath, and I must be the one to bring them peace, that has not…”

Dimitri was interrupted by a sharp, breathy laugh. Sylvain chuckled hollowly, fingers curled tight in his hair. “Do you—do you even hear yourself? I guess my suspension of disbelief held up when you were cracking skulls like eggshells, but sweet mother _Sothis_ , how can you rationalize this in your demented little head?” 

“I don’t care how weakened I am,” Dimitri snarled. “While I still draw breath, I can still avenge them. I’ll hunt her down, no matter how long it takes, no matter how many I must tear through—“

“STOP LYING!” Sylvain lunged from his chair, slamming his hands on the table.

Dimitri’s mouth snapped shut, and he dropped the clay. The fox plunked back down on the tabletop, misshapen from the fall. Dimitri was lucid enough to recognize that he had never, in all the years they had known each other, seen Sylvain lose his temper so completely. 

No deflecting grin was plastered on his face. No dry humor, no sarcastic comments, no laughing it off. No cold mask, either. Sylvain’s eyes blazed with fury. His nails dug into the wood of the table, pulling up splinters. 

“Stop lying to me, and stop lying to yourself,” he hissed. “Pardon me, Your Highness, but you’re practically an invalid. How can you expect to beat anyone in a fight when you can barely stand without a cane to lean on? Throwing yourself on a hundred spears in the name of whatever fucking cause you fancy that week does nothing but kill you. And if that’s all you’re after, then stop pretending you think you have a chance.”

Dimitri opened his mouth to retort, but the venom caught in his throat. His ghosts were still whispering to him, _you must try, you must succeed, you must fail and receive your punishment_. But Sylvain’s voice was louder. The fury and terror making his voice tremble and his eyes water was much more real. 

“I have to do _something_ ,” Dimitri finally rasped out. “I have paid them so much blood, but they must have more. I don’t have a choice, Sylvain.”

His old friend deflated, the anger in his face burning away as grief crept in. “Felix and Ingrid...they died right in front of me, y’know? All those years of training, everything they ever did—” Sylvain took a shuddering breath, “—and they died like _animals_. Like every other godforsaken soldier who decided to follow a fool in a primary color to their deaths that day.

“I...I always said I would protect you all. I always promised myself that if it came to it I would be the first to go.” He swallowed hard, lifting his head to meet Dimitri’s eye. “You can hear them now, can’t you?”

Ingrid’s fire, Felix’s scowl. Bloodied, emaciated, lost in the ranks of the dead. “Yes. I must save them as well.”

Sylvain laughed again. Not spiteful this time. He almost sounded genuine. “That can’t be right. I can see Felix haunting you, but if Ingrid haunted anyone it would be me.”

Dimitri frowned. “Speak plainly.”

“I am, Your Highness,” Sylvain said with a soft smile. “They both cared about you a lot. They knew the risks of following your path. They miscalculated. It could have been me instead. Or you.”

“It should have been,” Dimitri whispered, closing his eyes. The flames of Duscur, the crumbling monastery, Gronder soaked in blood, it was all rising to the surface. “All along, it should have been me, and not them.” He felt his voice breaking. His hands trembled. “If I can’t help them, if I can’t wash away their regrets, they will never be able to rest. I...I won’t be able to save them, not now, but they’ll never stop _begging,_ and _screaming_ …”

“Dimitri, listen to me.”

Dimitri flinched as Sylvain reached out and gripped his shoulder. He hadn’t allowed anyone to touch him in nearly six years, but he did not swat Sylvain’s hand away.

Sylvain’s eyes burned into his. “Life is priceless. It’s not a currency the Goddess—or the dead—will accept. Your life can’t buy salvation for someone else.”

“Then what do I do?” Dimitri pleaded, choking on a sob. “What do I do, when I know they died without justice? Without peace?”

With all the slow caution of one approaching an injured wyvern, Sylvain pulled Dimitri close. Dimitri found he didn’t want to push him away, so he allowed Sylvain to cradle his head against his shoulder. 

The steady beat of Sylvain’s heart pulsed under Dimitri’s cheek. It had been so long since he had been held. Not dragged, or carried, or restrained. Just _held_.

The tight thing in his chest, the thing that coiled around his lungs and throat and heart and constricted the life from his eyes, became too much to bear. With a shudder Dimitri broke down, tears blurring his vision and sobs racking his body.

And Sylvain held him through it, ignoring the wet stain that grew on his shirt, stroking Dimitri’s head as he let himself weep.

“I don’t know,” he murmured. “People die for no reason all the time. But whether it’s fate or dumb luck, you’re still here.

“You’re still here, and so am I. So is Dedue, so is Mercedes, and Claude and Marianne and the professor and so many of our people.”

Mercedes. She had been steady, and patient, and strong. 

Claude. He’d refused to back down to Dimitri’s threats, and had provided amnesty for the remaining Kingdom soldiers. 

Dedue. _Dedue, Dedue, Dedue._ If he had not returned, if he had taken his freedom and left for his homeland, Dimitri would be long dead. His presence had been a foothold for Dimitri to cling to, to tie him down to the land of the living so he could carry out his mission without being washed away by the howls of the dead.

They had stuck by him. And now he could not see to his end of the bargain.

Dimitri blinked against his burning eye. “If I can’t protect you all, if I can’t lead you...what am I good for?”

“That’s a joke, right?” Sylvain reached up, wiping the tears from Dimitri’s eye. “You’re charming, you’re smarter than you realize, and you’re so impossibly genuine and kind I feel like the biggest asshole in Fódlan just from being in the same room as you.”

Dimitri huffed. A smile tugged at his lips. When was the last time he had felt like laughing? “You’re thinking of your old classmate.”

Sylvain hummed, and Dimitri could feel it thrumming through his chest. “Maybe. But I think you’ve still got it somewhere.”

The ghosts still muttered and glared at the edges of Dimitri’s vision. _Coward. Weakling. Traitor._ But Sylvain was warm, and his voice was firm and familiar, and he smelled like cologne and leather and horses.

“I…” He felt like he owed an apology, but he couldn’t form enough of a thought to properly express himself. Still, he had to try. “I’m sorry, Sylvain.”

Sylvain tilted his head up, lightly kissing Dimitri’s hairline. “Don’t be sorry,” he murmured, “be better.” 




To Sylvain’s surprise, it was easy to roll out of bed as the morning bell sounded at dawn on the day of departure. 

Breakfast was lively, the dining hall full of knights and soldiers waking each other up with a combination of caffeine and bravado. Sitting down with Raphael and Leonie was an excellent decision for Sylvain’s morale; after losing an arm-wrestling competition with Raph and getting slugged by Leonie for a sexually-charged remark, he felt more upbeat than he had in years. 

Leonie joined him on the walk to the stables, and they chatted while loading up their battlehorses with pointy things and pack horses with everything else.

“You seem almost cheerful today,” she commented, tossing him a saddlebag. “What happened? Did someone actually top you last night?”

He laughed. “Tragically, no. I’m continuing my search for partners who can handle all _this_ without some help.” He struck a pose, earning a curry comb in the chest. “Hey!”

“Seriously, though.” She pulled the strap of her horse’s girth tight, looking over her shoulder at him. “I’ve been worried about you. Even though you’ve been cleared to lead missions for a while, it feels like your heart hasn’t been in it.”

Sylvain sighed, scratching his head. “Here I thought I’d been hiding it.”

Leonie snorted. “You know your pretty face doesn’t work on me.”

His horse nickered softly, asking for attention. He obligingly rubbed her ears, and Leonie let him take a few moments before responding. 

“I guess I kind of gave up, after Gronder,” he admitted. “Faerghus lost so much. I lost so much. I just wanted to get the war over with, and...I don’t even know. I didn’t have a future.”

“And now?”

He thought of the dark shadows fading from under Dimitri’s eyes. He thought of the Kingdom soldiers, cheering alongside the Alliance after they took Merceus together. He thought of Mercedes’ smile, and how he couldn’t stop himself from staring whenever she graced him with it.

“Yeah. I’ll make sure I do.”

Leonie grinned, and he only had a moment to brace himself before she clapped him on the shoulder, nearly knocking the wind out of him. “That’s what I like to hear! Now c’mon!” She vaulted up onto her horse, clicking at the pack horse to signal it to follow her. “We’ve got an empire to topple!”

Sylvain laughed, urging his horses after her as she wove through the stables and past the marketplace to the field just outside the monastery gates where the army was organizing the march. After reporting to the commanders’ tent, Sylvain split off to join Dedue at the division they led together. They got to work, herding the battalions together and organizing march formations and rations.

A flash of blond caught Sylvain’s eye as he double-checked his roster paperwork. He nearly dropped his quill when he saw Dimitri, led by a nurse, limping out of the monastery gates. The prince was on his toes, eye searching the crowd.

After a moment, Sylvain managed to paw at Dedue’s arm to get his attention. The taciturn knight’s face broke into the most beautiful, heartbreaking smile Sylvain had ever seen. He couldn’t help but watch as Dedue hurried over. 

The nurse couldn’t catch Dimitri before he lurched away from her, limping over to meet Dedue. Sylvain lost sight of Dimitri as Dedue enveloped his liege in a tight embrace. 

They murmured to each other, too far away for Sylvain to hear. He didn’t mind much, he already felt like an intruder just for watching, but he couldn’t help cheering a little inside when Dimitri flung his arms around Dedue’s neck for one last hug before they parted. 

Sylvain didn’t bother to hide his massive grin as Dedue jogged back to join him. “Well? What are our orders?”

Fresh tear tracks glistened on Dedue’s face, but he looked the happiest Sylvain had ever seen him. “End the war,” he said, “And come back alive.”

“Keeping it simple, huh?” Sylvain looked up to see the glint of Dimitri’s hair atop the viewing terrace of the monastery walls. He raised a hand in a mock salute, childishly hoping Dimitri would be able to see. “You got it, Your Majesty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's my outline for this chapter:  
> sad times with therapy  
> dimitri gets bonked and also locked in the castle  
> sylvain has a Hard Time  
> dedue gets a hug  
> claude goes crazy stupid on edelgard
> 
> Oof this was a little rough. Dimitri's hard for me because as much as I adore his character, all the trauma and idealism feeding into his psyche leaves an absolute mess to decipher and try to write. I feel like I have to walk a fine line between the unhinged, sadistic side of him and the sensitive, compassionate side. I hope I did him justice. 
> 
> In other news, Sylvain got closure and Dedue got his hug. On a very tangential note, Byleth being an emotionless mercenary and also taking time to learn their students’ preferences for food and tea and even flowers makes me soft. Dimitri isn’t programmed with a favorite flower, so I turned to flower symbolism to pick what Byleth gives him. This led to an obsessive late-night research bout that would make any self-respecting hobby author proud. Here are the fruits of my labor:
> 
> Thistles are the national flower of Scotland. The main legend I kept seeing throughout my 12AM googling is that there was an invasion of something-or-other and while attempting an ambush the enemy stepped on a thistle, crying out and alerting the Scots of the attack. Taking this myth along with the thorns and hardy nature of the plant, thistle usually represents bravery and tenacity, and sometimes protection or pain. Thistles are considered weeds in most of North America, but in Scotland they are cherished, giving them a duality between poverty and nobility. The shape of the flower, with the green head crowned in purple, can also represent royalty.  
> Heather is another Scottish favorite. There’s a myth about a woman whose fiancé died in battle, and she was delivered the message along with heather flowers. She wished that anyone who received heather flowers would have happiness and good luck, so white heather is thought to bring protection and good fortune. Also, due to the harsh environments they thrive in, heather can represent independence and resilience.  
> I see forget-me-nots associated with Dimitri once in a while, and they fit his story almost too well. Their story is that the man who discovered them growing on a riverbank went to pick the flowers for his lover, only to fall into the water, calling for her to “forget me not” as he was swept away. They’re associated strongly with remembrance, including after death, as well as with undying love and fidelity despite challenges. 
> 
> Anyway yeah these are the flowers Byleth chose to give to Dimitri as well-wishes for his recovery. Y’all can read into it as much or as little as you want.


End file.
